The space was dark, narrow, and as far as we could tell, empty of customers. “Two for dinner?” the hostess asked. I looked at Bravadita. We nodded at each other. “Do you have a reservation?” the young lady asked, perusing an undecipherable diagram on a small computer monitor. I thought, huh?
“No, do we need them?” I responded, looking around for signs of life.
She may have detected a note of skepticism in my voice, because she smirked a little. Then she said, “I can seat you right now.” Duh, I thought.
She led us toward the back, where a fairly good sized dining area opened up, previously hidden from the narrow passageway. Few tables were empty. Wow, who knew. As we were led up three steps to the upper level, a large group came in and were seated in a secluded area on the lower level. The place quickly filled up. The staff, dressed in black, hustled efficiently around the tables. The menu was extensive. The prices were in line with what I expected—higher than I wanted to pay. But it felt like a celebration of the season and a reward for accomplishments... a treat. So the meal commenced.
We ordered an appetizer consisting of some hefty baked mushrooms draped in wilted greens. The first bite briefly cut off my air supply—hot! When I could breathe again, I decided I probably would have preferred my mushrooms to be less aggressive. But the chicken marsala, which arrived in a timely fashion, was utterly delicious, creamy, coconutty, not too spicy, just yum, yum, yum. I ate the whole damn thing, because that is what I do (past president of the Clean Plate Club), and I would have eaten more if there had been more. (I rarely know when to stop.) Bravadita ordered some spinach and cheese glop, which she nibbled and grazed like a wild deer, and then she boxed up the remainder to take home. To make sure we were really, really crammed to the gills, we finished the meal with a mug of chai. It was a rare treat, indeed, to spend a Saturday evening, dining fine with a good friend.
Of course, like many treats, there are consequences to indulging. I drove home in a mental fog and laid on the couch for the rest of the evening in a fugue state, searching for crap to watch on network TV, rubbing my tummy, and treasuring the memory of that marsala. It was hard to forget. When your stomach protrudes and gurgles occasionally, it's not hard to remember what you ate, am I right? I was still full at bedtime, but not unhappily so. I went to sleep well satisfied.
Maybe it was the chai, but the night lasted forever. I slept in a twilight state, not quite awake, definitely not asleep. All night, it seemed, I swooped and dipped in and out of a series of what at the time seemed to be amazingly creative dreams about black and white videos. (This shouldn't have been a surprise to me, considering that the day prior I had actually recorded a short video of myself for a web project.) In my dream, as is typical with dreams, there were layers of meaning, unfolding like flowers into each other. Each video vignette was visually rich and full, and no doubt reflected the state of my stomach. In the dreams, I remember being pleasantly surprised to have discovered a new art form.
Today, the other shoe dropped, as it were. I guess I was emulating what happens with my cat, when I cave in to his demand for treats. My hothouse flower of a digestive system, after a calm morning, suddenly took a seismic wrench, the floor dropped out, and I was running for the bathroom. In a matter of moments, all that lovely chicken marsala, all that heavenly chai, and presumably all those forgettable mushrooms, all of it, shall we say... drained away, leaving me feeling empty, boneless, and oddly serene. I don't know if I managed to extract any nutrition out of the food before it exited, stage right, but in my opinion the fantastical dreams conjured by my epicurean bender made it all worth while.
Still, I don't think I will be eating out again for a while. I'm all for the pursuit of art, but I'll give it a year before I indulge again in the culinary path to creativity. Treats are highly over-rated.
